“Camp, secure commo,” Hansen said. “All royal elements, do not, I repeat do not, leave your positions. Camp Marshals, enforce my command by whatever means necessary.”
Half a year hadn’t been enough time to turn all the warriors of Golsingh’s army into disciplined soldiers. Malcolm might have qualms about striking down over-eager types who threatened to get in the way of the warchief’s planned response, but he’d do it.
Maharg wouldn’t hesitate an instant before using his new rank and battlesuit on warriors who’d scorned him six months earlier.
“Suit, rank and number of attackers,” Hansen asked.
Red holographic figures overlay the map, rating the attackers’ armor from Class 3 down to Class 12—a startlingly low quality, presumably indicating the partial suits to which the king had referred. There were fifty-seven all told in the attacking party, with a majority of their equipment in Class 12.
Cold meat for troops who knew what they were doing.
Which most of the royal army didn’t—but Hansen didn’t need most of the army.
He’d thought of calling the twenty-man command he’d organized under Maharg `the Guards,’ `the Special Unit,’ or the like. . . . But that would have made it a prestige appointment and made it difficult for him to keep out the sort of headstrong champions who had neither aptitude nor interest in learning how to use the suits they wore. So instead—
“All elements,” Hansen said. “Marshal Maharg and Unit Four will deal with the raid. I’ll accompany them. Marshal Malcolm—ah, Malcolm under the guidance of the king—commands the camp until I return.”
“Hansen, you’re not leaving me here!” Malcolm snapped, identified by his voice, by the tiny purple number on Hansen’s display, and by the fact he was speaking on the command channel to which only the king, the marshals, and Hansen himself had access.
“Right!” said Maharg brightly, a usage he’d picked up from Hansen.
“Lord Hansen,” said Golsingh, “I must forbid you to go out there. It’s quite unnecessary, and you shouldn’t be hazarding yourself in the darkness.”
“Malcolm,” Hansen said, “shut up and do your job! Lord Golsingh, with all respect—shut up and let me do my job!”
Hansen was panting and his legs quivered. He hadn’t moved his body since he closed his armor and got on with the business of organizing the defense.
If he survived, maybe he’d apologize to the friends he’d just insulted. More likely, he’d figure he’d done what needed to be done at the time; which was never grounds for an apology.
“Maharg,” Hansen called as he stepped into the open, “have the men ready. I’m on the way.”
He forgot to allow for the helmet’s bulk when he ducked through the flap. His head pulled the tent down behind him. Hansen’s servants scuttled about the wreckage, squealing in concern.
The twenty-man team and their leader knelt just outside the north gate of the encampment. “Suit, tag Unit Four white on all unit displays,” Maharg said as Hansen crossed the ditch.
Good, the boy was learning.
“Unit, secure commo,” Hansen said as he clasped Maharg’s shoulder in recognition.
The map quadrant of Hansen’s display showed the attackers several hundred meters to the west of Golsingh’s camp, stumbling in single file over the broken terrain. Definitely not using their suits’ light amplifiers.
“Right,” said Hansen. “We’re going to take them in the middle. That’s where their top people are. Maharg, you take Red Team and push the leaders into the ditch around the camp. I’ll chivvy the rear ranks back to Frekka with Blue Team. Everybody clear?”
The response was jumbled, but Hansen’s AI threw a gratifying eighteen of twenty-one possible up in the corner of his display.
“And everybody on 100% normal daylight?”
Sixteen rogers, followed by five more in mumbled embarrassment.
“Remember, it’s just like training,” Hansen added. “Except these guys aren’t fit to wipe the asses of the people you trained against. Right?”
Rogerrogerroger.
“Let’s move!”
Unit Four moved fast in the night, but they had a considerable distance to cover in order to attack perpendicularly to the enemy’s line of advance. The Frekka forces halted in a grove of birches two hundred meters from the royal camp. They were bunching up as troops farther back in line reached the leaders.